


All We Do

by CapConspicuous



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: 1940s Stucky, Angst, Homophobia, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Mutual Pining, Period-Typical Homophobia, Pining, Stucky - Freeform, THERE IS SO MUCH PINING OK, i love unnecessary tags so, i'M SAD, like wow, lots of pining, pre-serum steve, pre-war stucky, spoiler: they sleep in the same bed, stevebucky - Freeform, stovebinky, woah lots of angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-25
Updated: 2016-11-25
Packaged: 2018-09-02 02:12:44
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,359
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8647687
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CapConspicuous/pseuds/CapConspicuous
Summary: There is little to be done about the whole situation. Steve thinks this sort of helplessness is entirely different- it's not like the burst of pain when a fist connects to his face or the heat of blood trailing down to his lips. It's not like getting sick for weeks or being unable to take a steady breath for hours on end.No, this isn't like that.  Aka 1940s stucky with an unhealthy dose of homophobia and a side of angst.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Warning: Internalized and regular ol' homophobia. Written mostly after 12 AM, so please tell me if there are errors or something.  
> All We Do by Oh Wonder was the backbone of this fic, please give it a listen, it's amazingggg. Also cool to listen while you read. Comment!!! Even if it's just a sad face.
> 
> P.S. come be friends with me on Twitter, @capconspicuous !!! It's mostly stucky there haha SAY HI, I'M LONELY

There is little to be done about the whole situation. Steve thinks this sort of helplessness is entirely different- it's not like the burst of pain when a fist connects to his face or the heat of blood trailing down to his lips. It's not like getting sick for weeks or being unable to take a steady breath for hours on end.

No, this isn't like that.

Sometimes, Steve feels like he's drowning in it all- drowning in little moments and words and smiles and, _oh God_ , maybe Bucky's eyes.

And Steve can't _do_ anything about it.

He doesn't even remember the last time he felt in control of himself- no, can't begin to wrest the autonomy back from whatever abyss has stolen it. He can't stop himself from wanting and cursing in his mind and reaching out and cursing again.

Once, it was not so bad- once, Steve hadn't had such an urge to breathe in Bucky's space- maybe lean in and see just how close they could get-

As time goes on, Steve finds the whole dilemma is less like playing with fire and more like being sucked into the undertow. Except. Maybe Steve wants the waves to swallow him. Maybe he _wants_ to disappear into the darkness, if he could only just have one breath of that clear air before it all ends.

Steve would be lying if it didn't scare him, but he's not the type to lie much about anything. Except this, of course. Seems these days all Steve does is lie. Lie about how he feels, lie about what he wants, lie when Bucky asks him if it's okay that he spends the night out with Dot or Cassie or Anne, and all Steve says is _yeah it's okay, that's fine, sure_.

It scares him because they go to church every Sunday and sometimes Steve spends the three hours sitting stock-still, stuck in the crosshairs of some unseen sniper, wondering if they can read minds-

What if they can see inside him, what if they know _what if_ -

It scares him because he knows that being scared is a sign of guilt and nowadays Steve's always feeling two seconds from being caught red-handed. Or red-souled for the matter, because he has to face it at night when Bucky is breathing beside him- there is not one part of Steve that has not been consumed, not one bit of him that can be saved anymore. It's all a lost cause.

It scares him because there's always talk of Hell and Steve doesn't think something like this can be hidden enough for him to escape eternal damnation or the smell of brimstone in the air, ashes choking him and a forever of burning eyes.

It scares him because it seems he's always two inches from an edge, two heartbeats from falling over the point of no return, two shaky breaths from kissing Bucky senseless even though he _doesn't even know how to kiss_ , not exactly-

It scares him because he knows that if he took that jump into the void, he wouldn't even think twice of crawling back up again- Steve would just take what he could get and it wouldn't matter if _maybe_ \- maybe- _Bucky kissed him back_ \- because if that happened, Steve would embrace any punishment that came after death just to feel Bucky love him right back on this Earth.

No amount of inevitable Hell could turn him away from Buck, no, _not ever_.

And so, Steve has resigned himself to this helpless mess, constantly tugged this way and that by his own mind, by the shouts and sniggers of the larger boys who jostle him away from Bucky occasionally if they happen to walk too close together, by Mrs. Finnigan from the room across from theirs, who glares at them when they exit the room with Bucky's arm slung across Steve's shoulders.

Steve doesn't give up for anything, but he gives up against this. He gives up trying to overcome the waves of feeling that rush over him near constantly. Of course, he fights the magnetism that draws his hands to Bucky's, but he has long since submitted to acknowledging that there is something very wrong with him.

It's this whole situation that makes Steve unsure exactly what he's fighting anymore, or if he should fight it at all. Sometimes he feels like he's fighting against the whole world.

So what does he do? He lies awake at night, arms behind his head and stiff from the effort not to move. If he moves, he'll just shift closer he _knows_ it, he'll just end up drawing himself closer to Bucky's side. And if Bucky wakes up, Steve'll have to pretend he's actually asleep, blame it on the subconscious need for warmth if Bucky asks, so, _so_ softly in the dark, _Stevie, what are you doin', your feet are so goddamn cold_ -

Except Bucky somehow always knows whether Steve is actually asleep, a reminiscent ability from the days when Steve fell sick every other week or so and Bucky had to stay awake half the night while Sarah was out on her shift, pressing a cold washcloth to Steve's forehead.

So he doesn't move at all.

What else does Steve do, besides that? He pretends it doesn't hurt, hearing, seeing Bucky charm the ladies so easily. Once, Steve had avidly tried the same, tried to mirror Bucky's smooth talk because there was always a girl here or there that _had_ caught Steve's eye. But it had been years since Steve had truly wanted a girl and it had never worked for Steve anyways. He just wasn't the popular choice.

These days, all Steve wants to do was bury himself in Bucky's warmth, trace his fingers across Bucky's jaw, feel Bucky's eyelashes flutter against his cheek.

In reality, Steve settles for chuckling at jokes that aren't meant for him, but are meant instead for whichever girl is hanging on Bucky's arm at the time being. Steve could never truly hate the girls, after all, Steve knows what those alluring eyes feel like melting into his, but it still hurts and Steve wishes-

Steve wishes a lot of things.

Steve wishes it wasn't so hard to resist Bucky's laugh and wishes it was easier to ignore the swooping sensation in his middle when Bucky claps his shoulder or ruffles his hair or grabs the lapels of his jacket to straighten them out. Steve wishes he could run his fingertips over Bucky's lips and feel the huff of a laugh when it tickles; wishes he could spend lazy mornings in the crook of Bucky's arms instead of scrambling out of bed the moment they wake. Steve wishes he could lean in, just once, and taste Bucky's want for _him, Steve Rogers_.

And maybe most of all, Steve wishes that he didn't notice things. Now painfully obvious things.

Things that, even in the wake of the past two years of this twisted longing that Steve has endured, cannot be obscured as anything less than what they are.

Because the thing is, Steve knows the weight of Bucky's eyes, and now, more often than not, he feels that very warm weight when he dresses in the morning. He feels Bucky's bright gaze when he laughs at something, throwing his head back. He knows Bucky is watching as he sits in the afternoon sun, sketching where the light escapes in through the window.

And when Steve looks up, knowing that the golden glow is dancing off his lashes, Bucky doesn't even look away. He just smiles that soft, private smile that Steve _knows_ only he gets to see.

Steve wishes he didn't notice the way Bucky's hands linger on his face after yet another back alley scuffle, the way he rests a hand on Steve's wrist when he bandages Steve's scraped knuckles and brushes his thumb back and forth softly.

Steve wishes he wasn't painfully attuned to the way Bucky sleepily winds an arm around his waist when he has fallen asleep and Steve is left, struggling to calm his palpitating heart in the cover of night.

Steve wishes he could overlook the way Bucky says his name when no one else is around or how he uses any excuse to touch him. Just little sparks of contact. A hand here, the brush of a leg there, and Steve is _so far gone_.

It's this torturous dance that has Steve's head whirling the most because every anemic cell in Steve's body yearns for Bucky and simultaneously screams that Bucky feels the same. Half the time, Steve thinks himself delusional but then Buck'll lean in a little too close when he has something to say and his eyes will take a _small_ detour to Steve's lips-

And maybe one day, despite the late evening and after the several drinks they've had, Bucky will grab Steve by the wrist and say, _I can teach you how to dance, Stevie._ And Steve will relent, with a pleasant humming throughout his body, all resonating from the point where Bucky's hand grasps his and where his other hand holds Steve's waist.

And maybe it's so late that it's practically silent outside and there's hardly any light to see by, but Bucky is so steady- always better at holding his drinks- and he would never let Steve stumble. Maybe it's a stifling summer night and Steve tips his head back to laugh when Bucky whistles off-tune and attempts an Irish jig, still holding Steve's hand. And it would feel good to laugh because it's been days and days of people talking of war, so the laugh is easy and-

Maybe Steve will finally finish his breathless laugh by swinging his head forward again- and maybe Steve finds that his eyes are more dangerously close to Bucky's than they ever have been before-

And maybe- probably- _undoubtedly_ \- it's impossible for Steve to even catch his breath, he doesn't even notice it's gone. Steve only feels his pulse surging and watches Bucky's lips part as he inhales just a tad too sharply-

And Bucky's eyes are so mesmerizing, drawing Steve in with their own gravitational pull so that Steve is swaying on his feet- And the way Bucky whispers _Steve_ , like a prayer-

And Steve plunges, deep, deep into frozen waters.

 _God can cast my soul into Hell_ , Steve probably thinks. He would go to hell a hundred times over for this.

For the consuming warmth of Bucky's mouth on his, Bucky's strong grip on his shirt front and cradling his neck- God, and Steve can use his name in vain now, _God_ \- if there isn't something divine about Bucky's hair between his fingers or the matching breaths between them. Eternal salvation be damned if there isn't something heavenly about Steve pressed to Bucky so he no longer feels incomplete and insubstantial.

And in this case, if suddenly the heat is gone- if Bucky has to tear himself away and Steve finds himself flushed and gasping alone because _God, Stevie- I need some air- I-I'm sorry-_

Then, if this were true, Steve stands there in rigid shock for a good five minutes, tingling lips pressed together in the effort not to call out for Bucky because Steve _knows_ he's just outside that door.

And after all of this, which _has_ happened-it is not a "will-happen" kind of hypothetical anymore, no longer a sick fantasy, because Steve is standing there, jarringly sober, with his lips swollen and hair unkempt with the evidence of _Bucky's want-_

Whatever intoxicating spell there had been, it is lifted now and Steve is still standing there, bare feet cold on the floor.

So, there is nothing left to do but wash up and crawl into bed, alone- no longer drunk but still shaky- Steve lies on a creaky mattress and waits. Waves of adrenaline rush through him still, though he is motionless. There is nothing but heat and shame and the ghost of Bucky's breathing in tandem with his.

And sleep does not approach. Of course it does not. Instead, Steve wishes and fears and succumbs to the emotion that threatens to choke him. He _knows_ what it is. But he...

Eventually, the door creaks open and Steve's heart creaks with it, falling and plummeting endlessly. Every footstep is another skip, but Bucky paces away to the bathroom.

Water splashes occasionally and yet Steve is struck by a mind's-eye image of Bucky braced against the counter, looking himself in the mirror.

Hating himself. Hating Steve.

Steve squeezes his eyes shut when Bucky returns and pauses before the bed. For a heart-stopping moment, Steve is convinced that Bucky will leave and maybe never come back, because kissing is a line that could shatter the life they live. Because Bucky could want nothing to do with Steve any longer, especially not sharing a bed with him.

But the mattress dips as Bucky crawls in and the sheets rustle when he pulls at them over himself. And Steve continues feigning sleep, though he knows that Bucky knows the truth, even without the stuttering breaths.

Yet Bucky doesn't say a word. Steve understands though. It is easier to pretend nothing happened. He should be grateful.

It is two whole minutes of eternity that Steve waits with bated breath.

Two minutes of pounding pulse and racing thoughts.

Two minutes of suffocating silence.

And Bucky breathes it, one syllable, _Steve_. LIke a sigh of defeat as he finds Steve's hand across the mattress and threads their fingers together, mindless of sweaty palms.

Steve is helpless to the way he clutches Bucky's hand back and says _Buck_ like a lifeline- he realizes again that this isn't something he can punch his way out of, or wipe clean, or take medication for. Steve is in that void now, the one he can never recover from and maybe, kind of, sort of doesn't want to.

And maybe this is insignificant, just the grasp of their hands in the dark, hidden in the sheets, but Steve takes it for every scrap it is worth.

It is all they can do for now.


End file.
